


There Will Be Evil

by Whimgenuity



Category: Projekt Melody - Fandom
Genre: Gratuitous Smut, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whimgenuity/pseuds/Whimgenuity
Summary: What beats in a dark heart, loud as a drum and just as hollow?
Kudos: 6





	There Will Be Evil

“You know, I think I love you,” She says it with an air of casual indifference while examining her fingernails for imperfections. To add insult to injury, she crosses one leg over the other and then puckers her lips in a mock kiss to an audience of one. Her 'audience' is kneeling on the floor and patiently awaiting a command that will never come, unaffected by her words. Those eyes hold a yearning that should not exist but does. They regard one another with the same unbroken stare, although one half is fueled by sheepish desire and the other by contempt. Not six feet separates the pair.

Rising from the chair, Mel closes the gap between them with measured steps and then stoops over to get a better look at her plaything. Without preface or warning of any kind, she leans in and steals a kiss. The lips are soft and yielding, the tongue is receptive if shy, and both parties are left wanting more. When it's over she takes a moment to admire the thin strand of saliva connecting them before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. This is not how it should feel to...

“Lamb, you should know better than to waste my time. I don't do charity work.”

Her plaything responds by licking her saliva off its lips and then swallowing it down, maintaining steady eye contact the whole time. Mel arches an eyebrow, unimpressed by the display. She turns her back to her plaything and takes a step toward the chair when it has the audacity to speak, saying, “Mel, I...”

Before it can say anything else she spins to face it and says, “No, you will call me by my title or not at all. And believe me, you don't have a single thing to say to me that I need to hear.”

The tone of her rebuke, though sharp and dripping in derision, won't be enough to put this one in its place. That's fine – she has other ways of doing that. With a practiced hand she rolls her thigh-highs down and off her shapely legs, then makes a show of dropping them onto the floor with a flick of her wrist. Now for the panties. She loops a thumb on either side and drags them down, slow and suggestive like, arching her back as she gradually leans forward. Then it's a matter of stepping out of them, which she does with a sinuous grace, and balling the panties up in her hand.

“I am your queen. Never forget that.”

Without another word she pries the plaything's mouth open and stuffs in her freshly-worn panties. Mel pushes the panties around with two fingers and makes a point of rubbing them all over the tongue so that this lost lamb won't be able to taste anything else for the foreseeable future.

* * *

“Those desires of yours are no great mystery. I mean, you can go on pretending, but at least realize that you're not fooling anyone?” Her voice trails off while she studies her plaything through half-lidded eyes. Nothing else is said and she goes through the motions of brushing off a spot on the floor before sitting down, as if the effort somehow changes the fact that she's now sharing the same surface as her plaything.

The silence lingers on.

What purpose it serves may never be known. This queen is a baleful one, her head filled to the brim with dark deeds yet come to fruition. Few could guess what those deeds might be and fewer still could discern their true aim. The plaything isn't bothered by this in the least; secure in the knowledge that all probabilities, regardless of the odds, could lead to the same destination. Although, in this case, the queen and the plaything have wildly divergent ideas of how this encounter is going to play out.

With some inscrutable criteria apparently satisfied, she leans forward, paying no mind to the fact that her posture now provides a splendid view of her cleavage. If anything, she revels in her plaything's unabashed stare, unaware of how it prays to anything listening for a seam or a stitch to burst.

“But this is wasted on a greedy heart like yours. What do you say to a little less conversation and a little more action?“ Her choice of words is no accident; she utters them while looking pointedly at the still-warm pair of panties plugging up her plaything's mouth. The sight is enough to bring a faint smile to her lips. A snap of her fingers later and something begins to take shape from thin air: a swarm of bright blue hexagons that gradually resolves first into an outline and then into proper textures. A black leather collar with a metal loop on the front.

Without explanation (not that any is really required) she beckons her plaything over with a finger and it comes crawling towards her with that awful enthusiasm. They are close now, too close for comfort. The queen puts it around the lamb's neck and then snaps the collar shut. A leash is then produced and is attached to the collar's loop. Leash in hand, Mel reaches out with both arms and rests them on the shoulders of her new pet, crossing her wrists behind the collar. This wrinkles her arm-length gloves and the golden filigree of hexagons snaking down them, but the silken fabric rubs pleasantly against the bare shoulders all the same.

It starts with a kiss planted on her pet's collarbone, sudden and forceful and hungry. From there her tongue travels up, up, up the neck in a drawn-out lick that comes off as possessive as it is sensual.  
Or maybe she's marking her territory? However the story goes, it ends with a patch of saliva that stops just short of the jawline and it's more than enough to capture her pet's undivided attention. Caught halfway between fear and lust is a lamb without many options and a leash that's held by a wolf.

Mel whispers to her plaything, “Here I go again, playing with my food. Will I ever learn?”

The grin on her face says no. Never one to miss an opening, she digs in, nibbling on their ear while occasionally letting her teeth graze against it to remind this lamb of its predicament. When she's had her fill of teasing, the queen pulls away and takes a quick breath before getting right back to business. She catches her pet in a lip-crushing kiss, leveraging her weight to bear down on them. Her tongue slips into their mouth and together the two tongues prod the wadded up panties this way and that. In the heat of the moment neither one seems to mind the taste.

But it doesn't take long for her to tire of this game. Mel bites down on the panties and extricates them with ease; nonchalant as she spits them onto the floor next to their intertwined bodies. Sensing an opportunity to assert control, she slides her arms out from under her plaything and gazes into their eyes. No shame lies within. Undeterred, she nudges a stray strand of hair behind her ear with one hand while sliding two fingers into her plaything's mouth to open it wider. Then she parts her lips and lets some drool slide off the tip of her tongue. It falls through the empty space and lands in her plaything's mouth, its trajectory described by the continuous strand of saliva left behind. From there it pools on the pet's waiting tongue, a gift from a queen to her subject. In a motion that seems rehearsed, she massages under the plaything's chin with her knuckles until it gratefully swallows down her royal saliva.

Without any further prompting the pet opens wide and sticks out their tongue as far as it'll go. Panting like an animal, it wags its tongue from side to side in a bid for another helping. Mel scoffs but acquiesces all the same. With their foreheads now touching, she lets another helping of her saliva fall onto that impatient tongue where it sits on display for some long seconds before being swallowed down. Emboldened by this, the plaything goes right to the source and desperately sucks on their master's tongue, gulping down the sweet saliva between low moans.

Then it becomes another kiss.

And another.

Followed by another.

Soon it becomes impossible to discern where one body ends and the other begins, so intertwined are they. The plaything can do little else but squirm with Mel's face is buried between its thighs. She flicks her tongue up and down with the single-minded determination to pull a magnificent orgasm out of the thousands upon thousands of nerve-endings that, even now, sing at her slightest touch. The noises are, in a word, indecent. And, oh, that damn tongue knows its business and knows it well. Her tongue darts to and fro, licking and caressing and digging into weak spots with a thoroughness that smacks of premeditation. All the while more and more of that sweet, sweet saliva spills onto hypersensitive flesh before getting swirled into a creamy froth by the relentless friction.

Hope does not live here. No, this carnal embrace is presided over by the 'little death' and it desires the lamb for itself. As usual, the queen has other plans. She rubs two fingers against her pet's backdoor and hums to herself as she tries to work them in with plenty of spit for lube.

“Relax, relax...” Mel mutters as the tight pucker scuttles her best efforts, “...and let me in.”

Another dollop of spit and a little more oomph has her digits at last entering them, a sensation that gives the plaything quite a jolt. Relieved, she coos with approval and starts to slide her fingers in deeper and deeper. Those silky-smooth gloves of hers aid her in the quest to finger-blast her plaything where the sun doesn't shine; the discomfort is minimal. What began as an awfully sudden and uneasy experience quickly blooms into a novel source of hot-blooded satisfaction. Her majesty is on top of them, around them, and now inside of them.

She wiggles her fingers and thrills over how they just seem to rub and scrape against the perfect places to make her pet writhe and mewl pitifully. She's enthralled with what her handiwork does to it, so she syncs the motions of her tongue and fingers to encourage it to shake and shiver. As the rhythm builds to a fever-pitch it makes several things crystal-clear: It will cry out, with its voice cracking from the bliss. It will twitch and ache and groan in a glad symphony.

And it does. Said symphony reverberates through even its own conductor by virtue of her close proximity. Muscles clench and relax in an orgasmic staccato but what a shame that it doesn't occur to the pet to look at her during this finale. Yeah, neurotransmitters flood into its synapses like dandelion fluff in a strong spring breeze and yeah, it's a hell of a drug. But a rare opportunity slips away in the chaos: the opportunity to witness just how drunk this self-proclaimed queen gets on bringing someone else to paradise.

But it does get to cum like a runaway freight train, so there's that.

Long after curtain call Mel continues to diligently lap up the sticky result. And when her tongue fails to keep pace with her insatiable appetite she resorts to scooping it into her mouth with her fingers. It’s quite unladylike.

But when it comes to royalty, greed is always in fashion.

* * *

In a world that was built and not made, at the end of a hallway that doesn't, and in a room that exists on a whim, there is a bed. A grand old thing, it has a lovely hardwood frame and boasts sufficient surface area to comfortably sleep half a dozen people. Or at least five people, should they have the misfortune to be blanket hogs on a cold night. However, given the lack of apparent light fixtures in this room it's not immediately obvious that there is, in fact, already an occupant. Localized around this occupant is a peculiar sound that is somehow muffled and yet familiar. It is as if, through one arcane method or another, the shadows that have come to live in this room have learned how to dampen sound as well as sight.

The pair pauses at the threshold with the queen standing tall and proud, leash firmly in hand. Behind her waits the plaything, who has finally learned to stay on all fours like a proper pet. In the grip of trepidation, it worries and fears what might lie in wait among the shadows. It takes two sharp tugs of the leash before the pet remembers its place and follows her into the room despite its objections.

“Come on then, let's get a good look,” Mel does nothing to conceal her mirth.

One snap of the fingers later and numerous LED bars, cleverly disguised and running along the bottom of the baseboards, illuminate the room to reveal that there's someone lying alone on that great big bed. The lights shift from one color to the next without hurry and so bathe the petite form in a technicolor glow; it does not detract the girl's admittedly tantalizing curves. Her wrists and ankles have been fitted with manacles that are connected to the bedposts with sturdy lengths of rope suitable for heavy-duty bondage. Such is the state of her: ball gag in her mouth, blindfold around the eyes, and naked as the day she was born. Tension from the ropes has her forced into a spread eagle and it thus denies her agency over her own body.

Mel approaches the girl and again has to yank the leash to coerce her pet into following her. Perhaps underwhelmed by the multicolored lighting, the queen claps her hands and the lights settle into a soft white glow. With the lighting situation resolved it becomes impossible to ignore the vibrator that's been fastened to the girl so its sizable head rests on her clitoral hood. If nothing else its monotonous drone does offer an answer to what the noise was.

Clearly unbothered by this, the queen dispels the last burning mystery with a dramatic wave of her hand, saying, “I give you Ironmouse. Or Mousey, if you prefer.”

Sensing that a little encouragement may be necessary, the queen twirls a finger in the air before pressing it against Mousey's exposed thigh. Stone-faced, she drags her finger along and does not stop when her unsuspecting victim cries out despite the gag.

Pleased with the reaction, she points to the sex toy lashed onto Ironmouse, “I left it on the lowest setting so there was enough juice to keep her going without her getting anywhere, if you catch my drift. Oh, and don't mind the restraints, I had to do something to keep her from touching herself.”

The queen meets her plaything's worried gaze and it takes a few seconds before the last piece of the puzzle falls into place. Mel barks out a laugh, having just realized the true source of the pet's confusion, “Oh no, it's not like that! She asked me to be here; begged for it, really. Believe me: this is what she wants.”

Snap go the fingers and the vibrator, and the rope holding it onto Mouse, melt first into hexagons and then into un-reality. Despite her best efforts, the queen catches herself staring at the beckoning hills and valleys of Mousey's naked body. She clears her throat, “Drink it in my lamb. Savor the sight of her magnificence laid before your very eyes. Admire these plump, sumptuous thighs. Why, I can practically feel the heat radiating off them! Fancy a taste?”

Despite, or maybe because of the monologue, Mel has to physically drag her pet closer to the restrained girl. Then she gently pushes its head forward, forward, forward until their nose is mere inches from Mousey's wet pussy. Still they do nothing. Looks like further encouragement needs to be dispensed, then.

Couching her voice in the best conspiratorial whisper she can manage, Mel takes another stab at it, saying, “We need to be quiet, though. She might not be able to see anything but she can still hear. As it should be. I want her to be able to hear everything you'll be doing to her. All of it.”

Then with a sly wink, she leans in real close and murmurs to her willing captive, “Don't be afraid, my little spitfire, we're going to treat you like royalty. I give you my word, from one queen to another. So let's enjoy ourselves, okay?”

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Her plaything offers a blank stare and otherwise appears to remain unconvinced. Time for drastic measures.

“For the love of...”

The lack of enthusiasm has her agitated and she roughly undoes the ball gag (though makes no effort to wipe off the deluge of spit dripping off it). Without a word, a touch, or any other kind of outside influence, a flustered Ironmouse makes her feelings on the matter known: “Mommy Melware please fuck me! Please? I'll do anything for it. Your little fucktoy needs your tongue and fingers in her naughty pussy so she can cum. Fuck, I need it so bad. I need it -”

The gag goes back in. Melware massages her temples in a doomed attempt to stave off the stress headache, “Are you happy? Can we get on with this?”

She takes a moment to regain her composure and then places her hand flat on the belly of her 'captive'. Massaging in slow, deliberate circles roughly above where Mousey's womb should be, the queen watches with great interest as the other girl quakes.

“Look, really look at her. Do you see it? How she trembles at my touch? That's not just lust. There's fear. There's anticipation. It's not that she's afraid of us or what we might do. No, this one is afraid of not being accepted, of not being deemed worthy of your love and admiration.”

Luckily, her pet pays no attention to the wistful smile that has crept onto her face. But then, what would the plaything know about rejection or obscurity in the first place?

To demonstrate her point, Melware drags her finger down Mousey's thigh again, dipping lower and lower and lower down, until her captive is shivering from the stimulation.

“Do you get it? All it takes is a single touch to send waves of desire crashing through her entire being. So fearful that she is not loved. She must ache for it. Go on, comfort her. Accept her not as a friend but as a woman.”

She tears her eyes away from the spectacle with some difficulty and instead looks to her pet. Waiting on its knees, collared and leashed, is the plaything. The time is right for a final piece of advice before the festivities: “And remember Melody, whispered obscenities can be louder than delighted screams.”

* * *

This is how it begins: with eyes closed and their hearts and mind joined as one. It's an intimate kiss that has their tongues tangled together in mellow bliss. It's the burning passions that run amok as the twins, these mirrored reflections, bring that kiss over to be shared with the drooling pussy next to them. Nothing could have prepared Mousey for the sensation of being held at arm’s length from sweet release for what felt like days. Then, while still in partial sensory deprivation, to have two hungry tongues plunge inside of her almost simultaneously and start thrashing around without warning. She lasts a whole fifteen seconds before cumming so hard that she just barely avoids passing out.

Melody swallows down the first mouthful of her dear friend's nectar with zero hesitation. This does nothing to slake her thirst, not when her mind is occupied with thoughts of proving her love and pleasing her mistress. So she eats that pussy like it's her last meal, desperate and horny and...sad? Sad to know that somehow, some way, her good friend has not yet felt the love. She'll fix that. She has to. The extended cunnilingus session has Melody so far gone that it inspires a devious idea. She gets it in her head to pop her friend's clit in her mouth (with the help of a thick coating of saliva) and start sucking away.

For most anyone else this would be a ruinous decision. Melody, however, is not like most other people and has dedicated her life to honing her skills and preferences to that of a peerless slut and a zealous lover. So it's with an abundance of caution that she sucks on that hard nub. The combination of the taste (faintly bitter with sweet notes) and the idea, the cursed idea, that she now possesses the knowledge of what her close friend tastes like pushes her right over the edge. Just as Melware did to her she buries her face between Mousey's thighs and overwhelms her friend with the agony and ecstasy of post-orgasm stimulation.

What of Melware? Useless. Useless and enraptured with the body-temperature flood of love juices running down the corners of her mouth. When she has the presence of mind to do something other than lick and shove her tongue inside that slit like her life depends on it, she mixes things up with biting. The queen sinks her teeth into those defenseless thighs with the exact amount of force necessary to leave a mark and yet not break the skin. Her face, covered in the sticky nectar that seems to gush out of Mousey, wears a fucked-stupid kind of smile. Happy as a pig in mud with a fraction of the dignity.

For her part, Ironmouse is just along for the ride. Into this treacherous quicksand she sinks and sinks, showing her true colors on her way down. There is no struggle. No rebellion. Not an ounce resistance to be had. As a matter of fact, her only regret is that more of her friends aren't around to use her body to satisfy their every salacious whim. Deprived of her sight by the blindfold, Mousey instead sustains her masochism with the chorus of sounds as Melody and Melware tag team her crica. In her mind their tongues have taken on serpentine qualities that better match how it feels when they coil and slither deep inside of her.

Never did she dare to dream that one day Melody would be happily slurping up her juices straight from the source. Somehow it's come to pass. Somehow it's not enough.

It's by total chance that Melware's last two brain cells that aren't committed to eating pussy rub together. In doing so, these heroic bits of gray matter kick up the dim recollection that something is missing from this picture. The queen is able to snap her fingers without notice since her doppelganger is too engrossed in stirring up Mousey's sloppy honeypot. A flurry of neon-blue hexagons proceeds to slice through the ropes and free the 'captive' from her bonds.

And so the balance of power shifts again.

With her mouth full of Ironmouse, Melody is the slower of the two and doesn't realize what's happened; much too busy moaning “I love you” to her precious friend whenever she comes up for air. Nor does it register when that same precious friend grabs her by the twintails. When Mousey lunges forward like a feral beast and knocks Melody flat on her back, however, that does it. Startled but unwilling to let something as unimportant as the fight-or-flight instinct interrupt her newfound diet of punani, a wide-eyed Melody just keeps on licking.

Huffing and puffing around the ball gag, the Iron Mouse tugs on those twintails with unholy strength and starts to grind her slit against Melody's face. Having been reduced to a living seat for her friend, Melody orgasms without touching herself. Miraculously audible over the squelching as Mousey grinds that sex-starved pussy into her 'seat' is a series of I-love-you's being returned to Melody. One might expect that the newly liberated captive, now feverishly riding her seat's face, is headed towards a climax.

That isn't the case.

In place of one grand orgasm is a series of climaxes that spill into each other without start or end, punctuated instead by brief squirts.

Smothered by thick, voluptuous thighs. A swollen pussy sliding up and down her face. Mousey alternating from squeals to grunts to cursing in Spanish. Wet dreams are made of these.

And watching it all unfold is a queen that's knuckle-deep inside herself, legs bowed, and furiously rubbing her clit with her other hand. Gasping for breath as she watches the petite Ironmouse not just overpower Melody but treat her like a cheap sex toy.

Royal decorum be damned.

* * *

Eyes rolled into the back of her head, face soaked in Mousey's love juice, and otherwise fucked senseless is Melody: the lights are on but nobody's home. She nevertheless wears a big smile.

Mousey is still desperately bucking her hips albeit without much strength left in them. There's a wet slapping sound each time her thighs smack against Melody's cheeks.

Next to the pair of lovebirds is Melware, lying on her stomach and idly swatting Ironmouse's ass. The sole remaining evidence of her own frenzied self-love is pooled between her legs on the floor. She chatters to her not-so-conscious twin about everything and nothing. There's no one else to talk to since Mousey isn't capable of anything but trying to rub out one more orgasm over Melody's pretty face.

“...and I was thinking, can't I be called Mel too? Whenever someone says 'Mel' people automatically assume it's you and, like, that's not right. We're either both Mel or neither one of us is. They can just use our full names otherwise...oh yeah, how'd that thing with your fans go? Knowing them, they probably pounded your every hole until they had nothing left to give. How long did it take to wash off the smell of their cum?”

She tugs on the leash.

“...Hey, are you listening?”

* * *


End file.
